


Le Incendie

by elianaredfield



Category: Taylor Swift (Musician)
Genre: F/F, Superpowers AU, i don't know what i'm doing anymore, kaylor - Freeform, pyrokinesis, someone take the internet away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-04
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-04-12 18:02:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4489389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elianaredfield/pseuds/elianaredfield
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Red?  Red and Orange would have been more fitting for an album title, because, well, you know..."  Selena's voice is light and teasing, but you still roll your eyes and burn her cupcake to a midnight-black crisp.</p>
<p>// In which Taylor Swift is a literal hottie. //</p>
            </blockquote>





	Le Incendie

**Author's Note:**

> I watched Heroes. I like Kaylor. This happened. Apparently I can't write fic without someone accidentally murdering someone else, though.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: kinda vauge attempted rape, accidental murder, lots of fire

Your parents always tell you that you're special, and at age five, none of you realize the weight that holds.  All parents tell their kids that they're special, after all, and those words are just some sort of verse from the gospel of parenthood.  You beam when they tell you, though, and they ruffle your wild blonde curls and hang your crayon scribble artwork on the refrigerator.  

At age six, however, everything changes.

A summer storm tears through the Christmas tree farm, battering saplings and punching against the windows.  It's after ten p.m., but you can't sleep and you're curled up in your mother's lap, watching Arthur on TV.  But somewhere the storm rips a powerline from its place and the house plunges into darkness and silence.  You freeze and wait for monsters or murderers to form out of the leaky sea of darkness and drag you off into the rolling thunder outside.

You nearly panic when Andrea and Scott leave you alone on the couch to hunt for candles.  They bring back a few, set them on the coffee table, and then leave to search for the lighter, bickering about who left it where last.

Thunder strikes through the air like a gunshot, and you panic, heart slamming rapidly in your chest.  In your terror, you reach for a candle.  Your hand feels hot like when you get a little too close roasting marshmallows for s'mores.

And suddenly, the candle lights.

The flame flickers, and you stare at it in shock.  Your panic about the darkness and the storm fades into panic about how the flame had ignited.

You reach for another, and this time you watch more carefully.  Your hands are shaking, and when the flame lights on the next candle, part of it hovers in your palm, trembling along with your fingers.  It doesn't hurt at all, but there's fire touching your skin, so as a reflex, you shriek.

Your parents sprint into the room, and they stare at you and the lit candles and the burning flame in your palm, their faces shocked in the darkness.

"Oh Jesus," Andrea says.

You wonder if Jesus even has a prayer to say for this.

* * *

Your grandmother on your father's side was like you, they explain.  A firestarter.  Pyrokinetic.  Scott is calm.  Andrea panics.  From six to sixteen, you're wrapped in one of those fireproof blankets.  Figuratively, of course, but you definitely feel smothered by it all.  But you suppose you can't blame your mother for her panic, because that's just not something that's explained by science, and it takes several years to learn how to control it.  Several years, a cluttered box of mistakes.

Age seven, and you accidentally burn the knob of your door to melted brass when Austin breaks the leg off of your favorite toy horse.

Age eight, and you char the pant leg of a boy on the playground who tells you that he thinks your hair looks ugly.

Age eleven, and you accidentally slice your finger attempting to help your mother chop vegetables.  The entire dinner goes up in smoke.

You're nearly fourteen before you feel confident enough to say you have it under control.  As much as you can, at least.  When you jolt awake, cold and sweating from horrible nightmares, your palms still ignite.  When Austin makes you angry enough and refuses to stop provoking you, heat pounds right beneath your skin, pressing at the tissue and sinew.  But it doesn't happen by accident, no simple flicks of your wrist accidentally burning a hole in the couch upholstery like that time when you were nine.

High school goes as smoothly as it can.  Hendersonville High is a collection of kids living in a generally-wealthy Nashville suburb, with the newest iPhones and Forever 21 fashions and weekends spent lounging in the park in their ENOs.  You fit in like a slightly-warped puzzle piece, but you find your place, and you manage not to set ablaze your math textbook the first time you fail a test.

The worst accident happens in Chemistry.  You're working with Bunsen burners, and the chemical formulas on the page just aren't making sense to you.  The students around you all seem to understand just fine, and it makes your face flush hot.  You perform the emperical formula wrong once again, and as you go to angrily erase the paper, it ignites.  The alarms screech even after your teacher manages to quell the flames, and you all stumble outside to the football field, standing along pictures of your school mascot (a Commando?  who even thought of that?).  Your lab partner, the teacher's favorite student, takes the blame, mumbling something about getting the paper too close to the burner by accident.  The explanation is accepted with grudging annoyance but no punishment.  You try to thank her, but she looks at you with wide, wild eyes filled with fear, because she was standing right next to you, of course she saw what set the paper on fire.  

She doesn't speak to you about anything but Chemistry for the rest of the year.

* * *

"I hear you've got a pretty cool party trick."

The boy's drawl reminds you of SEC football games and camouflage.  In a panicked flare, you wonder how he found out, or if you're even talking about the same thing.  But you're sixteen and you care about appearances, so you try to keep your cool (ironic as that statement is).

You're in the park, lounging in the dark on the playground.  Andrea thinks you're spending the night at Abigail's.  This is the first time you've lied like this, and your heart keeps skipping up to punch you in the roof of the mouth.  The darkness swallows you, broken only by stars, nighttime insects, and a few lamps in the nearby parking lot.  In the dim lighting, you turn to the boy next to you.  His name is David, and he's handsome in a subtle way.  You try to pretend that you appreciate his solid jaw more than the pink lipgloss of the girl who sits in front of you in math class.

"What might that be?"

You expect him to say something about the inferno hiding behind the cage of your ribs.  But instead he laughs and says, "I hear you can write a song about anything."

"Is that so?" You ask.  David digs around in his backpack and comes up with a bottle of whiskey.  The sight of it sends the good girl inside of you into shuddering hysterics.  You think of Scott's disappointment and Andrea's fury.  So when he offers you a drink, you decline, and he shrugs and swigs a fourth of the bottle in one go.  You wonder if it burns his throat.

David grins, and you think there's something strange reflecting in it, but you place it as a trick of the darkness and the strong scent of the whiskey making you dizzy, "Would you write a song about me?"

"Dunno.  My songs come from strong emotion," You explain, and he shrugs and downs more of the bottle as you sit awkwardly surrounded by occasional bad small talk.

But as it turns out, David is a lightweight.  A major one.  It takes all of ten minutes for the whiskey to hit him like a crowbar, and his drawl shifts into a slur, "D' I not give ya strong emotion, Tay?"

"Not yet," You tell him, your voice meek like a mouse caught in a trap.

He leans in closer, and he reeks of alcohol.  It nearly makes you gag.  Your hands press into his chest hard, but he still leans in way too close and you're pinned between him and playground bars.  He tries to kiss you, to touch you, and you wish you had worn jeans instead of a dress, sneakers instead of flip flops.  He's stronger than you, football player muscles built up under skin, and as his hand slips up your thigh, your own palms set fire.

He's startled by it, and the bottle of whiskey spills, staining his pants, soaking them.  The flames on your hands leap gleefully like kids on to Christmas presents, and he lights up like the tree in your living room every year.  You don't know what to do, so you leap off of the playground, the mulch cutting into your knees.  But you don't even feel it as you run.

You hide in the treehouse in Abigail's backyard, and come home the next morning with a manufactured smile.  

David's death is ruled some sort of freak accident, and no one even knows you're involved.

You mourn with the rest of the school, but even when they filter back into their normal lives, you still wake up screaming.

* * *

Fame strikes hard and fast like a viper, and by the time you're nineteen, you're headlining a tour to crowds of fans screaming your lyrics back at you.  Your sets are loud and bright and blinding, and you don't even think about David or the vicious monster inside of you when you're on the stage.  The tour takes your mind off of things beautifully.  Beautifully, that is, until you suggest using fire (not even your own) at an award show performance in the upcoming weeks, and Andrea tugs you aside and scolds you hard enough that you feel like your lips are splitting and bleeding down your face.

When you perform that night, you wonder if smoke tumbles from your lips from the strength of holding back the blaze flaring between your lungs.

* * *

You make friends, real ones, ones not meant just for the spotlight.  Selena Gomez and Ed Sheeran are the best ones, though, the ones you trust the most to keep your secrets locked up tight.  You show them your ability one night after they've filled you up with a couple of shots of tequila.  You set fire a collection of old papers that needed to be shredded anyway, and they watch in amazement and grab your hands once they've cooled, studying them with wide, childlike expressions.  But they don't judge, and they don't leave.  You don't tell them about the boy on the playground that you burnt to ashes, because you're sure they'd hate you if they knew, but you tell them more than anyone else and they accept it.

You also tell Dianna.  She's beautiful and carries herself like a fairy, and when she kisses you it lights you up almost more than the fire itself does.  You tell her gently at 2 a.m., your favorite time, and instead of good-natured curiosity like Selena and Ed had shown, she's horrified.  She scrambles away from you like you're Lucifer himself.  You end up at Selena's door thirty minutes later, eyes puffy with tears, each sob coughing out a cloud of smoke from your festering lungs.

Selena holds you while you cry, and the next morning she coerces you out of sweating into too many blankets with the offer of making cupcakes with you.  You've never been able to resist kitchen therapy, so you spend hours in an over-size t-shirt and no pants trying out Pinterest recipes and attempting to make the icing the **perfect** shade of pink.  You're working on icing a batch of red velvet cupcakes made specifically for the girl whose home you're sharing when the words spill out of you like a hurricane, "I know what I'm naming the new album."

"Oh yeah?" Selena asks, licking icing from her fingers.  She stares hungrily at the sprinkles you're peppering on to the cupcake in your hand, and you're not even sure she's really heard you.

But you continue on anyway, "It's about a lot of emotion, a lot of bad experiences in my life, or what I picture they would have felt like if those break-ups with people like Harry and Jake hadn't just, you know, been PR.  And emotion makes me think of the color red.  So.  That's it.  The album is called Red."

There's a long pause, and then, "Red?   _Red and Orange_ would have been more fitting for an album title, because, well, you know..."  Selena's voice is light and teasing, but you still roll your eyes and burn her cupcake to a midnight-black crisp.

* * *

You meet Karlie Kloss in a snowglobe on the Victoria's Secret fashion show catwalk.

It strikes you as extremely ironic that a snow angel is the thing that can sweep you off your feet.

* * *

Maybe you're a human fireball, but Karlie Kloss is a chunk of the sun that broke off and plummeted to Earth.  You tumble into friendship with her headfirst, and within two weeks you're constantly baking cookies or going out to lunch.  A month, and you realize that it's not fire flickering in your stomach whenever she flashes you that smile that splits her entire face.

But you swallow back the feelings like cough syrup, keeping it casual, because you don't know where she stands (though you've heard rumors about her flings with her female counterparts, and how numerous they are).  Until one day she mentions her contact with Josh, and as soon as you realize that relationship is about as real as some 14 year old's Harry Potter fanfiction, you allow yourself to relax, just slightly.  You unlock your spine and you allow your red lipstick to quirk up in the corners as you occasionally make comments that you hope show that though you are America's Sweetheart, you're not a nun.

"Do you think they're cooled off enough?" Karlie asks one day, perched like a cat on your kitchen island, studying the collection of vegan chocolate chip cookies settled in neat rows on the cooling rack.  You reach out, dip your finger into one of the gooey hunks of chocolate, and it sinks under your touch, warm but not burning.

With a grin, you take the cookie you'd just examined and offer it to her.  Her nose wrinkles, but her eyes grin at you, "I don't want your germs."

"My germs will make it taste better, thank you very much," You shoot back, and as she opens her mouth to retort, you press the cookie between her teeth.

She yelps around it, but there's no choice but to chew or be suffocated.  She does, and after teeth sink into oozing chocolate, Karlie's head literally tips back slightly, a soft sound escaping her that seems far from PG.  You almost blush, but you try to match the game of this flawless model in front of you, "See?  If my finger germs taste that good, imagine what some other parts of me might taste like."

The words startle even you with how suggestive they are, because though you flirt back and forth, it's never been that blatant.

To your relief, Karlie laughs, bright and without malice.  She reaches for another cookie, and as she lifts it to her mouth, her eyebrow arches like some sort of perfectly executed architecture, "I guess we'll see, now won't we?"

You shrug, leaning lazily back against the countertop, but your face still burns hotter than normal.

* * *

"Your hands are warm," Karlie whispers.

You've absolutely massacred your living room, and most of your apartment.  Chairs have been perfectly arranged, heavy objects gathered, and after three painful hours, the blanket fort you two currently reside under could probably be more accurately referred to as an empire.  There are pillows piled under you, and you shift on top of them, studying the way Karlie still grips the hand she'd picked up to comment on your shade of nail polish.

You almost spill everything right then and there.  Instead you laugh and push her away playfully, even though all you want is for her to move closer and closer and closer until she's part of you.  But you can't bring yourself to say that, so you bat at her in a way that's very similar to one of your cats and say, "Well maybe they wouldn't be if you weren't all over me.  You're like a human oven."

"Does that make you an ice queen?" Karlie asks, hitting you across the chest with a pillow.

You laugh loudly and shake your head, desperately wanting her to know how wrong she really is.

* * *

When you finally kiss her, it's April.  It's raining, and it's cold with a handful of winter still trying to hang on.  The heat in her apartment doesn't want to work right, and Karlie is shivering like a leaf, the lack of fat percentage on her body turning her into a panther on the runway but leaving her defenseless to any sort of cold.  You, of course, have a constant heater just under your skin, so while she wraps herself in sweaters and blankets, you lounge in shorts and a Nike t-shirt that's a little too big because it belongs to her.

"Why the fuck aren't you cold?" Karlie asks, sounding almost like she's offended at your ability to maintain warmth.

You grin back at her, a little bit like a wolf, "It's because your heart of ice keeps you from being warm."

"Says the girl who calls me sunshine!" Karlie cries out, and she looks like she's debating suffering the chill to come over and punch you in the arm or tickle you or something.  You provoke it, stretching and fanning yourself like you're dying from heat.  And in less than ten seconds, Karlie is untangling herself from her cocoon.

You almost feel like she's a lioness and you're a gazelle when she walks over to you, always some sort of jungle cat.  You expect a solid punch to your arm, a wild flurry of fingers tickling your ribs and neck and armpits.  What you don't expect is her straddling your lap with startling ease for someone so tall.  She leans in close to your face, her nose brushing yours, her breath caressing your lips gently, almost tenderly.

Her voice lowers to a huntress purr, and the words make your lips part just slightly, "Why don't you warm me up, then?"

The openness of your lips makes it almost hilariously easy for her to lean in.  She captures your mouth in a kiss, and you nearly burn to ash right then.  Your hands find her hips and you focus on keeping them normal and not flaming.  But you also focus on her mouth.  The kiss is hot, hot enough to cook the inside of your lips, but neither of you care.  Your mouths move together easily, like they're meant to, and you tug her in closer to your chest.

You kiss her for hours that feel like only moments, and you spend the night on the couch, your arm around her waist, the warmth of your body serving as a blanket.

* * *

_Have you told her yet?_

Ed's question rings in your ears like a church bell.  He'd asked you just a few hours before you and Karlie had left for this secret, impromptu trip to the beach.  It's with shame you told him no, and it's with shame that you think of it now.

Karlie is in the water, trying to catch tiny shoreline-dwelling fish with her hands as they zip by, and you're lounging in the sun.  She's laughing, and she looks beautiful, and your eyes flicker to your hands.  Karlie isn't paying any attention to you, so you curve your palms in towards you and let the tiniest of flames climb to the surface.  You debate just calling her over, unsure of how else to tell her.  

You have to.  You know you have to.

"Hey, Karlie!" You call out, and she looks up, her hair wet and sticking to her face.

She grins and starts to make her way our of the water, "Yeah baby?"

The petname falls from her mouth, and you tug the flames back beneath the surface.  Not now.  Not like this.  You don't want to ruin your vacation, is all.  You want Karlie to have fun.  So you build yourself an easy smile, "Would you put sunscreen on my back?"

"I'd be glad to," Karlie replies, and you pretend you don't notice the confusion in her face.

* * *

Harsh breaths tear from your chest, gunshots, canon blasts, something violent and loud.  Your hands are pinned above your head, the wall digging into your wrists.  Karlie's head is settled against you.  Her lips cover your neck in time with the viciously rapid beat of your heart, mouth hot and open, occasionally granting you a scrape of teeth or a brush of tongue against your skin, enough to make you hiccup on your breath.  Her hair tickles your shoulder, and her hipbones pin yours against the wall.

Her hand grips one of your legs, guiding it up around her waist.  You lock it in place as your skirt slides up your thigh and the front of her jeans digs into the damp fabric of your underwear.  Her nails press into your skin hard and you release a quiet little mewl of a noise, your head thumping against the wall behind you,

The hand on your thigh shifts, and her hips move to leave space.  It's rushed and frantic and not like you'd expect your first time with this beautiful ray of sun to be, but Karlie's predatory side tends to always surprise you.  Her fingertips hook in the waistband of your panties, and you release another quiet sound.

You want to give in.  So badly, you just want to shift your legs wider and let her fuck you until you can't stand up.  But you can't.  You can't knowing the secret that keeps shoving its way between you.

So Karlie's fingers just barely graze damp flesh and you gather every single molecule of self control you have to gasp, "Karlie, wait."

And she stops immediately, in a way that you find endearing.  She allows your leg to slip from her waist and moves a comfortable few inches away from you.  Her lust-darkened eyes are worried, and you feel a little bit guilty, "Are you okay?  Did I hurt you?  Did I go too fast?"

"It's not you," You tell her, breathless, feeling like you're in a terrible romantic comedy, except you aren't understanding the jokes, "God, it's definitely not you.  There's just...I need to tell you something.  Before we do this.  I'll be a shitty person if I don't tell you first."

Karlie raises her eyebrows, always trying to keep the situation light, "Do you actually have a penis?"

"No!" You cry out, and you can't help but laugh.  Some of the nerves filter out, and jesus christ are you thankful for Karlie Elizabeth Kloss.  

But you're also terrified, because you remember Dianna, and that wound still unstitches itself and bleeds all over you sometimes.  You don't know if you're strong enough to lose Karlie like that too.  You bite your lower lip, trying to figure out where to begin, "Ever since I was little, I've been...I've been able to do something special.  And I know you're uh, you're super into logic and stuff, but I need you to put that aside for me.  Can you do that?"

"Um, yes.  Are you an alien?  I've always wanted to meet one," Karlie replies, still smiling, though it's laced with confusion now.

You breathe in so deep it hurts your chest, and you stare at your feet, "I have pyrokinesis.  I can like... create fires with my mind.  And stuff."

There's a laugh, but then as soon as green eyes take in your facial expression, the sound fizzles out.  

"Wait...are you serious?" Karlie asks, eyes narrowing like she thinks she might be on an episode of Punk'd.  You nod, and your hands shake like leaves when you lift them, holding them out to her.  The fire rises slowly, swallowing your palms, licking your fingers, biting your wrists.  Karlie's mouth drops, and you wait for the yelling, the fear, the running away.  But instead she reaches out, and rests her palms a few inches above yours, as though checking to see if the heat is real.  She doesn't flinch away when she realizes it is, "That's so cool."

You're shocked, and you can't help but laugh almost hysterically in relief, "You don't think I'm a freak?"

"No, I think it's badass.  Can you like, show me more?  Tell me about how this happened?" Karlie asks, always curious, always ready to learn.

You don't get laid, but that doesn't even matter.  Because Karlie spends the whole night holding your hands, even though she knows what they can do to hurt her.

* * *

If you took a shot every time Karlie makes a joke about how "hot" you are over the next week, you'd be in the hospital with alcohol poisoning in an hour.

* * *

 Karlie walks in after a photoshoot, in her street clothes but with her eyes still painted smokey with eyeliner and her lips still a perfect pink pout.  Her hair falls in a way that looks like gold, and as she flops next to you on the bed where you're watching Grey's Anatomy reruns, you realize exactly how much you want her.  You roll on to your side, and then on top of her, knees on either side of her perfect waistline.  She looks up at you through long lashes, "Well hi there."

"Hi.  You're kind of absolutely stunning and I kind of really want to make love to you tonight.  Is that okay?" You ask, suddenly nervous of diving right in without asking first.  Karlie's cheeks flush pink, lips falling open just barely.

She nods, and you study the way her neck flexes, "I kind of totally would be okay with that."

You smile, and you kiss her deep and soft all at once.  She tastes like expensive lipstick and snickerdoodles, and it's amazing and intoxicating and you wonder if you can be addicted to the taste of a person's lips, because you're getting there.  Dear god, are you getting there.

You kiss her and kiss her until your lips purple with bruises, and only then do you break apart so you can free her of her shirt.  Beneath it is nothing but skin, a neat topography of ribs and abdominal muscles, the soft swells of perfect breasts tipped with rose pink nipples.  Your fingers press into the slats of her ribs as you shift and lean in, taking a nipple between your lips like a delicacy.  Karlie arches up into you, a shuddering breath escaping her, and you purr around the tender flesh.

When it hardens in your mouth, you pull back, settling to sit between legs she's already spread wide open for you.  Your nails curl as you pull them over her abs, leaving tiny pink trails.  You allow the tiniest flame to escape your fingers, just enough to make the skin pink and tender.  It draws a gravelly noise from Karlie's mouth, and you repeat the action, fascinated by her sounds, "Your abs are spectacular."

"So is your face," Karlie replies, her eyes fluttering back open.  You smile and lean in and kiss her again, and your teeth tug gently at her lip even as you fumble with the button of her pants.  Eventually you free it and manage to tug the clothing far enough down toned legs for her to kick them off completely.  Her underwear follows shortly after, lace and sticky with want, and you feel about 2% guilty for the fact they're probably ruined.

You trail your hands over Karlie's thighs, the inside hollows of her hips, occasionally lapping at her skin with a tiny enough flame to make her gasp but not enough to hurt her.  Your fingers brush past warmth almost stronger than your own fingers, but you don't touch firmly, even when she arches her hips up, silently pleading.

Carefully, you shift so you're beside her, and you lean in and rest your forehead against hers, "I kind of love you."

"I kind of love you too," Karlie murmurs back.  Your fingers graze just barely over a sensitive bundle of nerves, and she twitches.  Her voice is low and maybe a little shaky but demanding all at once, "I'll love you even more if you stop teasing."

"I suppose I could do that," You purr, finding yourself unable to really resist the tone of her voice.

Your fingers press a little more firmly against heated flesh, rubbing small circles around where she needs it most.  Karlie's eyes close, and she moans quietly into the air between you.  Suddenly, you find yourself determined to coerce her to be louder.  You own this entire floor.  No one is going to hear or complain, so you might as well make the most of it.  You rest your forehead against Karlie's, and without any real warning, you slip two fingers into slick warmth.  Her mouth falls open, a silent cry, and that's far from what you want, now isn't it?

"Don't hold back, please," You whisper.

You adjust so you can find her neck with your mouth again, and your fingers start a steady pace, gentle and far from it all at once.  You play Karlie Kloss like you play your favorite guitar.  You learn the chords and the notes and you combine them until music forms, the most beautiful song you've ever written falling from her mouth in a rhythm of gasp and moans and whimpers.

With your kisses burning against her throat and your fingers burning inside of her, it doesn't take all that long.  

When she crumbles, she cries out your name like a prayer, and she shudders against you and around you like a phoenix rising from the ashes.

* * *

You're there on Karlie's 22nd birthday, both of your families all gathered in one place.  Everyone is laughing, and the air smells like cake frosting.

Carefully, you explain to Karlie's family about your ability.  They listen with fascination, and they ask questions much like Karlie had.

But once they're finished, they cheer and applaud when you light Karlie's birthday candles with just the tips of your fingers.

* * *

The calendar on your fridge shoots you in the chest on September 23rd.  And it's obvious, painfully so, because the plate of omelettes in your hands falls to the floor and shatters, leaving shards and eggs in a wild work of abstract art on your kitchen floor.  Karlie looks at you, obviously shocked, and rushes over to pull you away from the sharp splinters of the broken plate.  Her hands grip your face, "Baby, are you okay?"

You've never told anyone before.  It's been eight years and you haven't told a soul, not even your journal.  You close your eyes, and tears carve canyons in your cheeks.  Your voice sounds thick, "No.  No, Karlie, I'm not."

She carries you to the couch like you weigh nothing, and you cry into her chest as you tell her about that night, about your panic and about the boy in a coffin because of it.  And she cries with you and holds you so tight it feels bruising in the best way possible.

She doesn't leave that night, or the next morning.  Or ever.

Karlie stays, and she still holds your hand, and when you have nightmares she doesn't even have to ask what they're about.

* * *

The 2014 Victoria's Secret fashion show is everything you could have dreamed of.  You get brave and waltz on to that stage in your own set of lingerie, belting out hit singles, interacting with the models all fleeting touches and sly grins.  It's hard not to just pull Karlie in and rip her lingerie off on stage, but you resist.

When she suggests holding hands as you walk out together, your heart skips, but you agree.  You reach for her hand in time with the beat, not even having to look to know exactly where your own fingers fit.  Karlie squeezes reassuringly, and you try not to beam like an idiot.

Together, you don't even need pyrokinesis to set the catwalk on fire.


End file.
